


Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley

by DaughterOfTheRevolution



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Nostalgia, Regret, Romance, RusAme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfTheRevolution/pseuds/DaughterOfTheRevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Russia wanted was a photograph of the star-studded western nation. What he got instead was a heart full of unwanted reminiscences, and anger over the excused reasons that he had left him for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley

**Author's Note:**

> You try and listen to Adele's song, When We Were Young, and not think about Russia and America. I dare you.
> 
> Since I first heard that song, this oneshot came to mind, as well as Moody Blues' song, Nights in White Satin, because it's got such a sexy, mystic vibe. What can I say, I like the oldies.

Russia really wanted to stay in his own territory and let his diplomats handle foreign affairs, after all, that was why they were appointed to such positions. But, no matter his thoughts in the matter, time and time again he would find himself shipped or flown over to other nation's homes to do what his representatives could not.

It was a waste of time. Russia was a busy country; he'd had his hands full since the Second World War and the current frosty situation he found himself in with a certain adolescent nation.

No matter his excuses—as plausible as they were—he constantly found himself in full representation outside of his secure borders. While a nuisance it was simply because of the piled work he would have to rush to upon his return home, Russia did manage to try his best to remain positive and enjoy the sights at least.

It was "suggested" he remain within the capital's boundaries, but the sights therein had already become mundane and familiarly sore upon his eyes. So he ignored those who followed and set out with his minister to take in the new constructions littered along the land that both excited and baffled the nation's populace.

While Russia's foreign affairs minister might have been reluctant to leave his office in D.C. he certainly had no choice but to abide by his sovereign nation's demands for a forced vacation to travel around while in wait for Russia's appointed time to return to his own home. It was an interesting trip to say the least. Its end only came when the Pacific Ocean came into view.

There was a slight longing to cross that expanse of waters, but it dwindled when the attractions of the West Coast pulled Russia's attention away from the sickness his longing for his home created.

Hollywood was certainly all he had heard, and seen, it to be. It was nice to see every familiar building in color. The vibrancy had been expected, but it still awestruck Russia in every way the famous destination did to those looking upon its magnificent monuments for the very first time.

Indeed the home of the stars was as appraised as rightly it was for its worth. So many notable faces more recognized than those weary souls in D.C. These residents seemed to smile more, their surrounding atmosphere much better than the utter discrepancy Russia was forced to go through with each visit.

He was glad he took the time off of hazardous atmospheres to take in the popular visuals. He was not disappointed in the least.

It was sad to say that only one thing about the revered Hollywood that set Russia back a tick. Aside from the beautiful people, delicious food, and first class transportation, there was absolutely one thing that irked Russia just by the sight and ruined his view of the lavish city.

America.

Russia was perturbed with the way the young personification treated him. He would stand up straight and put on the persona of an absolute business tycoon, meet his gaze as well as give him just as firm a handshake as Russia would offer from himself. America never once let Russia or his politicians view him in such a low light as to undermine him by way of speech or dress. No, he was well kept, superbly mannered, and powerful in presence. But, it seemed that was the only side the young Westerner was willing to show a supposed rival.

With VIP access to even the most selective of clubs or premiers, there Russia sat, just across the street at such a nice and expensive restaurant with his wide-eyed minister, casually viewing the gathering crowds and the arrival of celebrity royalty in the most glamorous of ways. Flashes of cameras snapped into the air, deafening anyone near and blinding those too close. But the cheers, the whistles, the fainting, it certainly attracted every eye, as was the gathering's mission.

Even with such an envied seat to view this so closely, Russia felt the discomfort arise inside him and he began trying to decipher if he were possibly angry or in the mix of another emotion. The annoyance was there, along with other feelings Russia wouldn't inform his citizens of. But his eyes held onto the lavish forms of the most beautiful in the world, his gaze only honing on a certain individual who so professionally had his arms wrapped about the most gorgeous human beings, as cited by the viewing world.

Russia supposed he should have suspected the young U.S. of A. to make an appearance, encouraging the continuous flashes of each photographer's camera. He looked absolutely breathtaking, a far cry from his usual appearance from the elite of the world. The diplomatic fashion seemed always a century late for the desired attire of the young, and America wore these trending articles well.

Russia knew that America had many faces, had been warning the world of this for many years despite their constant disbelief and mistrust of his statements. So, in reality, this revelation was nothing more than an expected proven point. But even still, the rising upset inside the USSR had come from the internal understanding that Russia had wanted this exposed long ago, especially before his very eyes.

Why America felt the need to keep to formalities before his fellow nations wasn't something easily comprehendible. It was just a shame he wasn't comfortable—or in the current sense, bold—enough to show every version of his spirits. Was it because the others weren't viewed by himself as worthy enough to see such jaw-dropping finesse, or was this another way to undermine his acquaintances, only granting them vision of one of his sides so to keep the upper hand in a sense? Whatever it was, or whatever the young nation's reasons were, it still infuriated Russia that he had yet to see one of the country's various sides until now . . . and only by chance at that.

"I want a picture. Give me camera." Russia's minster looked at him curiously, but, again, he had no other choice but to obey the commands of his nation and therefore listened to the old nation's every whim.

With camera in hand, Russia stood himself from his patio table and made his way toward the rolled out red carpets. His build enabled him to push many a reporter aside, and height acted as a means to locate the desired participant for his seeking camera.

It was strange how time seemed to slow down, or perhaps the truth was that Russia, himself, was frozen. Why? Well, the possibilities were endless, but they were things with which Russia allowed his mind to think on. He was mesmerized, absolutely frozen in state even though he was closer than he had been before with the perfect view and stance to do what he came there to do.

An envious feeling arose inside the large nation then, understanding that the American people were so well acquainted to this happening that they had long since lost their paralyzing starstruckness. They simply went about their business to view, take in the familiar sight, and then be on their way, already satisfied within the bounds of a few minutes. The effect wasn't expected to take hold of Russia as much as he thought it would. The tingling feeling of just this one's shadow would indeed wash over him through simply telegraphic viewing, but now that his eyes were able to take in the sight of these gods among men, to scent their perfumed bodies, to hear their smooth and accented voices properly without the static the transmission of electronic devises caused, Russia could now rightly understand why these stars were labeled the way they were from the populace of the world.

He liked the way they moved, how they sashayed down the visually notable carpet and how they so expertly halted their movement before a huddled crowd of photographers to issue them a trademark pose. It was so very natural to them, and this expertise reflected perfectly in the motion of their sovereign country.

It was the perfect opportunity to be done with what Russia had originally sought. America had paused his movement just close enough to take a pleasing picture and be gone without the younger even noticing his presence. But the notion of such made Russia inwardly chuckle, the effect internally causing his pale lips to twitch into a small smile. As if nations wouldn't notice one another when within the vicinity of the other, the thought was very laughable.

So, instead, Russia sighed and once again hindered his ability to snap a single photo. Engaging in conversation certainly would persuade his body to move and complete what the mind had so ordered it to do.

"I believe this is the first time I've seen you so well dressed, Amerika." Russia's small smile curled more into the likes of a smirk after watching that golden head of the nation's whip around from the pose he had struck for the photographers in front of him. But that break in practiced posture certainly didn't deter the cameras to halt their resounding clicks and to fade the snaps of their flashes. Instead, when America walked closer toward the presence of the other present nation, the lights followed the lovely country like an entire constellation dedicated to worship him. What a sight it was, and Russia wondered if the daze in his eyes were from the bright lights ejected from the cameras or the vision of the oncoming nation currently bathed in white light.

Russia would go with the first suggestion just because it made more sense at the time.

The scoff that echoed out of America's throat sounded in tune even, just like all of the boy's talented musicians. "I find it my duty to look presentable wherever I may roam." That was America's answer, one that bound their conversation together and allowed for many things to be said between the nations now standing before each other, enraptured within a circle of lights.

Russia wasn't sure how he managed to ignore the nuisance of near blindness around him, but his vision didn't seem to have any qualms with focusing solely on the breathtaking state the American nation adorned himself in. "Ah, but I have never seen this." His eyes took a satisfying sweep of the younger nation's form. "One would think your attire when presented before me nothing but casual attire compared to the sight I behold now. I am contemplating if I should find offense in this new discovery."

"Discovery?" America laughed. He laughed like his stars. "I know you watch television. I've been broadcasted like this before."

There was a sly twinkle in America's bright blue eyes behind his spectacles. Russia understood it perfectly. The East continually denied its interest in Western culture. Movies, music, all of it failed in comparison to the East's standards.

At least . . . that's what was said out loud.

Right then America revealed he knew of the attraction he pulled in from everyone around the world, enemy or not. Hell, it was certain that even Cuba fanboyed over America's extravagant entertainment.

With a slip of tongue Russia too revealed that he and his people were aware of the leader of the West's popular tastes. But it was a slip Russia was willing to let go. The two already knew so much about each other that understanding that the other country did indeed channel in on their radio and televised stations wasn't quite a secret amongst spies.

Finally, after managing to take hold of the control of his body, Russia rose his hand to reveal the camera he had been holding all along. "May I be allowed a photograph?" Russia wanted to laugh at his polite tone. Memories of the old monarchy courts flashed into his mind. Those times were long gone. He was supposed to poise himself as a man of power in stance, tall and intimidating, giving no excuse for refusal, but even so he continually reverted back to times and mannerisms of speech like how he used to talk to this country currently standing before him. Well, perhaps old habits die hard.

Blue eyes flicked down toward the camera in hand. America seemed to stare at the device for a little while, Russia almost catching a befuddled look on the boy—almost—but America was too smooth for that, already raising his head, a wide smile on his face showing off his pearly white straight teeth.

Russia had expected to imprint an image in the film, not to be taken by the hand of an announced rival and pulled into a luxurious limousine. But he never really had time to show any inclination of upset over the action before the vehicle began moving.

"I had asked for a photograph, not a tour around town. Have seen already." Russia tried to show his annoyance over the situation, but it didn't falter America's posture seated across from him, nor that constant grin on his face.

"You'll be lucky to get a decent picture with that junk. I'm just taking you to my studio where you can use all the latest tech and best lighting," America informed. He looked quite smug and pleased with himself and his photogenic experience. "Gotta look good for the fans back home." The wink at the end of his statement should have flustered the Russian over the hinted adoration the American nation had amongst Russia's own people, but Russia wasn't in the mood to lie right then.

The studio America had taken Russia to was nice. The space around the building gave enough of a perimeter to take in some privacy. No one was there except for themselves, but even with the lack of assistants, America seemed to know exactly what to do upon entrance into the photo shoot area.

"So, how do you want it?" America dropped his outer coat onto a lounge chair in the corner of the room while he strutted toward the sheets of white, maneuvering around the light stands and their wires.

For some strange reason, Russian seemed entranced by the way America's hips rolled in his walk. The young country certainly never used such motions while greeting him or their other fellow nations. Perhaps it was for the best; less distractions.

Russia had barely turned his eyes away from the lower half of America's body when said nation turned and struck a pose for him. "Do you want an entire body shot?" America then turned at another angle and enacted a second pose. "Or, do you want an upper body photo?" He smiled then, loosening his limbs while dropping the pose and stepping a little closer toward the silent Russian. "Maybe even a headshot? I can autograph it and everything."

Russia wanted to chuckle, but the sound came out like a stuttering sigh while his rigid body laxed, his hands tightening their grip on his camera. "I just wanted one picture, Amerika. I am not professional, so excuse my lack of knowledge in this department you're so familiar and relaxed with."

Blue eyes glanced down at the Russian device again. America made no retort to Russia's statement, just simply took in the device for a while as if in thought. When those watched eyes looked back up at him, they quickly connected gazes. Another brief pause in silence before America moved to the side, rapping his knuckles against a table.

"You can use any of these. They've got plenty of film. I don't care if you just take one picture. You can have whatever you pick, my treat."

Russia let out another sigh. This time over the sheer exhaustion of dealing with America's antics like this.

"My device will suffice," Russia replied, holding up the camera.

Eyes rolled and America was quick to cross his arms to show his distaste. "It certainly won't get you quality photos."

Russia chuckled, holding his camera close and looking at America's childishly upset features through the lens. "Does it take quality cameras to capture a quality picture of yourself?" Russia chuckled. "I think I found your secret, Amerika."

"Or, perhaps, I found yours."

Russia would have just snapped a picture anyway, with or without a pose, but his trigger finger jammed at those words, and at how he noticed America looking at him directly through the lens, as if the camera Russia was hiding behind wasn't there at all.

"Why do you want my picture, Russia?" The emphasis on the word, "you," was noted, but Russia really didn't have to explain himself, at least not too much.

"Is one of many," Russia replied, keeping the camera positioned not so much to chance a better picture of the American, but more so to act as a shield to cover whatever emotions might be slipping from him via facial features unawares. "I like to keep up with the growth of many nations. Is best to have photographs of the maturities."

That was closest to the truth Russia would reveal to America. There was still mostly truth in what he had said. He did keep tabs on all the nations, updating their status with recent pictures of their appearance. But of course America didn't need to know that Russia already had a current photo of him. Yet the fact that Russia didn't have a picture of the young nation displayed as he was seemed to fester a need inside the older country to have said photo of him as is.

There certainly was no waste of film for extra pictures of the beautiful.

Whether or not America was satisfied by that answer was really a mystery; the boy was a master at smiling just to hide those facial giveaways. The nod let Russia know he had moved on from the poor attempt at interrogation. When his arms slid back down to his sides Russia knew it was safe to say that the subject as to why the picture was sought after was dropped . . . for now at least.

With a clap of his hands, America backed up toward the backdrop. "So, what will it be, big guy? Just say what you want and I'll try to meet those standards at my best."

Just a picture, just one, that's all Russia wanted. That's all he wanted to say. But the words and the translations for them jumbled together, choking in his throat. And so his silence persisted.

And of course America improvised over the lack of command. He just smiled in understanding, struck a pose and held it there. It would have been a lovely headshot; America smiled so nicely, his eyes even sparkled in the lighting of the lamps. Such a wasted picture in time all because Russia couldn't bring himself to control his body to snap the damn photo.

So America moved again. This time he backed up further, taking a hold of the lapels of his coat and angling his body. It would have been a perfect body shot, again, if Russia hadn't wasted the opportunity and neglected to take the picture.

It was comforting, in a way, how understanding America was with Russia's lack of response to his given postures. Without retort or snide remark to the USSR's inability to do something as simple as work a camera he instead tried another pose, to which the same response was received; silence and stillness. But, America still took it like a good sport

"No?" America questioned while he straightened his coat and designer pants. "Alright, well, maybe the lighting's all wrong."

Russia's eyes followed him as the New World nation made his way toward the corner of the room, near the window where the lounge chair was. He sat himself down, nearly draped himself over the chair in such a dramatic fashion. There was no doubt to his proclaimed professionalism.

"How about now?" America froze for a moment to enable the opportune moment to take a shot, but Russia hadn't moved from where he stood. His eyes being the only thing of himself that had made any motion.

With a sigh, America stood up, sauntered back across the room and this time took up a camera of his own make. He offered an encouraging smile to the other nation before taking the camera out of Russia's unmoving grasp and replacing the device with one of his own.

"There, maybe it's the camera's fault." America lightly chuckled at his statement, but he didn't press the situation any more than necessary. He kept on good spirits.

"I do not think so." What a surprise that Russia had managed to say something, but there was no sarcastic gasp from America nor a snide remark to the Russian's previous silence.

A short smile even graced Russia's expression, meeting America's gaze for a moment until his eyes fell down toward the expensive camera in his hands. "Perhaps . . . I do not want a photograph anymore."

Keeping his gaze on the design of the camera lost Russia's chance to view that sudden frown pressing America's smile down. But the young nation quickly caught himself, pressing the point of this meeting.

"No pic? Come on, man, you're already here and have everything you need." America motioned toward the studio around them. "You were so adamant about it before. Whatcha do, grow cold feet?" America had leaned his elbow on Russia's should and chuckled, but the older just didn't seem to share his humor.

"Nyet, just . . . changed my mind. Perhaps for the better, da?" Russia pushed America off of himself, walking back toward the table and setting the American device down.

"Look, it's no problem. Hell, if you want I can snap one myself and send it to you, except . . ." The longer pause turned Russia's attention back towards America. This time, he caught the nation without a smile, nor even a shine in his bright eyes. "I'm afraid I don't know your exact address . . . anymore."

As usual, Russia would reply back with a remark about America's nosey, yet monitored, spies in his lands, but there was something about this situation that banned all casual retort and usual response for the time being. So, instead of turning America's response into something snappy and lighthearted, at least for them, it became a little too crippling than the both of them had wanted.

Russia wanted to stop himself from witnessing the fall of America's smile, wanting to remember him as that youthful jubilance that he always was, but he found himself unable to pull his eyes away.

"That look is very unbecoming. Not broadcast worthy," Russia noted.

America chuckled, his eyes blinking a few times while his fingers rose to massage his cheeks and lips. While his gaze seemed afar off—into the same reminiscing memories as Russia's own mind no doubt—they eventually turned back up toward Russia. "No, it isn't I suppose. Apologies for disappointing."

A snicker caught itself in Russia's throat. A light smile on his lips. "You never have, Amerika."

A slight sparkle twinkled in America's eyes, just for a moment. Something to hope for no doubt, but Russia wouldn't feed it. He wasn't allowed to. Hadn't been for a long time.

The older nation's gaze fell back to the selection of topnotch cameras nestled evenly on the table and even the canvas for any beautiful model to splay themselves out for. Perhaps asking for a photograph had been too much. Russia now understood he should have just stayed in D.C. back at the embassy.

"The . . . last photograph I have of you is some years back. A series of updates since the war shows your growth progress. Impressive as always, Amerika." Russia inclined his head in tribute to the nation. "However, despite your obvious physical maturity, each one is same."

"How?" Russia turned his eyes, he noticed America was pressing far more curiosity than he usually did.

"You never smile," Russia replied. His violet gaze then took in the various framed photos of current and past stars all proudly placed upon the walls around them. They no doubt acted as encouragement to the young upcoming rookies hoping to take the best shot of themselves in this studio to show the world that they were just as good as those that came before them. "When I saw you with your stars, you looked so different than the usual image of your profile. So, you might forgive me for seeming hindered on what to do."

"I smile a lot when you're not around," America replied, but his tone wasn't as chirpy as Russia had expected and come to know. No, the tune in his voice was gone right then. And, looking at him, Russia could see why. One couldn't expect to have an upbeat voice when lips pulled taught into a thin line with no hope of an oncoming smile.

With a twitch at the corner of Russia's own mouth, he replied, saying, "Da, you have convinced me." It was when he said that that America had turned to look at him, understanding that Russia had caught the signs of his secretly hidden unhappiness. Something they both shared.

One more bout of silence overcame the both of them while they tried to shake off the uneasiness permeating between them with the sights of the studio around, and the pictures of the beautiful people hanging on the walls.

As minds reminisced into memories long gone, it created a better sense of calm. At least for Russia. He wasn't worried about showing America that soft smile of his own as he recalled something that the both of them might delve into fondness of.

"Actually," Russia spoke up first. "I do have a collection of photos . . . such old things, unfortunately. And, now that I think about it, every one captured you in the process of smiling." He looked at America. "The latest was dated 1918. It is noted your smile fell after the Great War."

"No one likes war, Russia." America crossed his arms, inhaled a breath and turned his face away from the conversing Russian nation. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, no, mostly just avoiding confrontation and truth.

"Da, but you were lucky, you had a good time after that war." Russia felt his lips twitch again to attempt another smile, but it was a poor try. "As you said before, I'm certain you smiled often without my recounting. After all, I wasn't there."

Out of the corner of Russia's falling gaze, he caught movement. America turned his head, looked at him again, and when Russia turned his own gaze to take in the boy's features, he noticed the surprising determination light up America's eyes. Timid rebuttals all but ceased.

"You weren't," America reminded and confirmed. "Yeah, you missed the good days when you could snap a picture of me any time, nothing but a smile on my lips. But," America sighed, rolling his shoulders. "You missed the bad days too, and they were far and wide, more than the good. It's hard to smile when you're not doing it for someone."

What a lovely sight it was to see, as memories swayed America's emotions of times long gone, but forever loved. He relaxed a little bit more, his lips curling more into fond endearing smiles as his eyes sparkled with the flickering lights of the past. "Don't you remember? I used to smile all the time for you back then . . . when you'd visit, when you'd write. Even when I was the one making the surprise trip to your place, I couldn't help myself. I couldn't even keep a pleasant secret because of my damn smiles."

Russia chuckled along with the followed memories. "Da, you gave yourself away from hiding that prized stallion gifted for me when you visited my home with your General Sherman because you couldn't hide that large grin of yours."

America laughed, recalling that moment in time. Just the lightest shade of red flushed over his features, nothing but innocent reminisce. But at least that vibrant color returned to his irises.

"But you liked him," America reminded.

"Da," Russia confirmed. "I liked every present you used to give me." His smile broadened and he motioned toward America's own expression. "But the best was always to see that." Since the revolution of the photograph, Russia had a picture portrait from America every year since he began sending photos of himself attached to long poetic letters of declarations. "Is shame our communications had to come to such an immediate halt, and traditions cease."

Perhaps that was why Russia had felt such a need to take a picture of America when he saw him with his stars. If not for the way he was dressed, perhaps more so for the expression he wore on his face. America never smiled like that when meeting with Russia and his diplomats for whatever reason. And the boy had such attractive smiles. Such a rarity to catch on film in this day and age it seemed.

"Yeah," America agreed with a small nod to his head, his eyes closed to remember every moment recollected in detail. But then, he opened his eyes, lips twitching again as he looked toward Russia. "You know, I can still smile for you, if that is what you wanted."

Russia felt the need to turn back to the awaiting array of cameras, but he didn't. He simply listened to America, watched his movement, and noted his expressions. Russia had seen America smile, so, wasn't that enough? A picture to capture in time something hardly seen would have also sufficed, so Russia's mind continually told him. But was really all of those things which Russia had really wanted?

Perhaps America was right. Perhaps all Russia had wanted was to see a smile; was to see the younger nation form a smile . . . for him.

"Can you still?" Russia hadn't remembered asking this aloud. Whether he had or hadn't was a mystery, especially after America responded to it, hearing it either from the older country's spoken voice or fluttering heart. They may still hold such a bond after all this time after all.

"Sure," America replied, his optimistic tone heightening again while he moved to pick up a camera. He then came up to Russia, placed the device in his hands and rose them to level with his face. "Oh, wait, wait." Russia watched curiously how America had pulled off his coat and then began combing his hair out of place with his fingers. The look he had gotten in the end was understood, and something that it seemed the American was trying to press if only to enact more emotional memories. "There," America said with a familiar grin of the likes long past. "I know you're more used to this kind of look, right?"

He reached over, pulled at a stool and seated himself down, remaining perfectly still in wait for the other nation to take the picture. But, once again, Russia seemed bodily reluctant to finish the task. America's smile faltered for a moment.

"You okay?" He asked, leaning in for a moment. Those blue eyes fluttered when he pulled back, seated upright while his fingers continued to fan the remnants of the gel used to perfect his hairdo. "I . . ." When the boy sighed, he seemed just a little frustrated. Even at this point. "I know I've aged." And Russia knew that as well, he had the timeline of photographs to prove it. All of them stored safely within the confines of his room, in a place where even his bosses couldn't find. "But I'm still the same America you knew so long ago." Was this an argument to reenact a look of childhood, or was this the point and case of an argument for his identity?

"I know," Russia replied in a near silent whisper. The camera in his vision began lowering, suddenly, viewing America through the lens of a camera began to sound so unappealing, especially when he was physically sitting there before him for Russia's own amethyst eyes to take in on their own. "Do you think I'm the same nation you knew . . . so long ago . . . Amerika?"

Russia watched Alfred blink. He expected an easy answer, the common sense answer. No, of course Russia wasn't. New leaders, new government, new system. Of course he wasn't the same.

But if so, then why were they both remembering times shared? Why was America trying to smile for a country he didn't know? Why was Russia trying to act like someone he no longer was? How hypocritical of the both of them.

There was silence in the wake of Russia's question, and what a stupid question it was. He wanted to take it back because of the expected response. His upset over his idiocy had his frustration pulling at the camera in his hands.

He looked at the device, hating it simply because of how non-Russian it was. It was a horrible model, useless for the simplest of things. If it was of his own make and model then Russia would have completed the task in capturing a photograph already and being able to move on and be on his way.

Snaps and pops could be heard from the cracking camera in Russia grasp, and it was those sounds and sights that kept Russia's attention away from America and his state. So it wasn't completely undertaken how Russia reacted when he felt warm hands press against his own. He quickly looked up only to notice the young New World nation now standing before him, those eyes of his looking so intently at him—into him.

America was very smooth in his motions. Russia hadn't even felt the younger take the damaged camera out of his crushing grasp. It was after that, when Russia began to feel those strong fingers rubbing at his white knuckles that he glanced down, noting how America's touch sought to calm his state of physique and mind.

When his hands loosened tension, Russia's eyes then sought those talented hands as they slid up his arms, pressing down on his shoulders before slowly easing their way closer to his face. Violet eyes turned back to America's face to find meaning behind these caresses as warm digits pressed against his jaw, rising up over the curves of his cheeks before sliding back a little further toward his ears, gradually pulling sandy locks behind ears.

America looked focused, as if he was searching for something. With eyes narrowed and brows knit together it certainly was a sight to see. And Russia had to combat with himself on which to focus more on; those caressing hands, or America's transparent expressions.

In the end Russia had found himself more attentive of America's facial features than of the lay of his hands, though the heat he felt from their touch made him swoon, the heat emitting inside his chest far overshadowed than any warmth he could feel through touch. It was pleasant to see America's eyes soften, his brows raise, and his lips part before subtly beginning to turn upward.

"Yeah." America's tone was soft, almost like a whisper as his searching eyes took in the sight of Russia before him, examining every facial structure. "Perhaps he's in there somewhere." America then rubbed his thumb over Russia's chin, caressing it in such a way until the Russian's lips began to curl, much like his own. "Especially right there. He used to smile just as much as me, you know." When America sighed, the warmth of his breath was felt against Russia's own lips. Such a tantalizing feeling that could never result in anything good for the Communistic nation. "Maybe . . ." There, in America's eyes, Russia watched that shine begin to fade, all too noticeable now that he was so close to him. "Maybe his bad days began to outnumber his good days, and he too lost the reason to smile." The smile was so quick it was hardly noticed for America's lips fell into that of a frown. "It's a shame really."

Yes, such a shame for the both of them.

But Russia would deal with his own inability to smile if only America would continue to do so. That was all he wanted. Even if the boy wasn't smiling at him like when they were both younger, Russia knew he could cope. To see America without a smile on his face was the biggest disappointment for the older, and, if he recalled, there had always been one remedy that would fix that.

A kiss to those frowning lips shouldn't have been allowed, but it happened. America returned it in kind afterwards, those caressing hands stopping for a moment, moving to the Russian's shoulders to brace while mouths melded together as if they had done so only yesterday. Well, the past certainly seemed like only a little while ago, and both were willing to believe it was just that.

In truth it had been over half a century since they last held each other so intimately like this. And yet none of their instincts seemed to have faded or worn due to lack of practice. Both of them knew to breathe through their nostrils, both of them knew that when one wrapped arms around one's neck, the other's hands were to be placed upon hips. Tongues met and danced so fluently that the sheer perfection couldn't be mistaken as anything but the bond they once shared . . . and, apparently, still do.

For a moment they were both content with the refusal to breathe in the oxygen their lungs screamed for. Instead, they fed off one another's auras, taking in the other nation's strengths, their weaknesses, all that was them they inhaled of each other and let it fester inside of their bodies before any other action was made.

America had such strong thighs that squeezed against Russia's hips so excellently their strength alone held the younger nation up while his body sought to wholly cling to him. Russia's hands desired to worship such strength and so moved from splaying out along America's back down toward those flexing muscular limbs. He could feel them flex underneath his finger tips and in turn his pelvis felt their crushing might.

But Russia was strong too. So too had he grown in might after the Second World War. As much as America's grip bruised, so too did Russia's. So too did he take hold of the boy and discolor perfectly bronzed skin while his lips suckled America's mouth, biting at the folds, tasting capitalist blood.

In another time and place Russia might have been remorseful for the condition he left America's attire in. He wore such expensive fabrics and of the line designs that it was a shame how the Russian's fingers tugged until buttons popped, until finely sewn seams snapped all too quickly under his strength. In less than what it took to form this dashing outfit together under precise touch, it was rendered to tatters.

Russia's hands desired to remember the feel of the American's skin underneath his touch. And so anything that got in his intended way was unfortunately destroyed. But America made no concerns to the outcome of his shirt, and with the way he pressed his back into Russia's touch it was safe to assume he wouldn't mind whatever might happen to the remainder of his clothing.

"Ivan." When America gasped Russia's name, he felt his heart beat a little faster, the pace of it much more than the organ ever ran.

Far too soft lips pressed against Russia's ear, falling until following the trail of his jaw. That mouth dipped just a little further to press a few kisses against the exposed skin the Soviet country's scarf didn't cover. Russia shivered at the precise kisses and would have leaned into more had they continued to mark the silvery scars lain just out of view underneath his scarf, but America pulled away from that destination and instead trailed his lips back up, kissing the underside of his jaw, chin, a nip to his bottom lip before his pale lips were taken into a searing kiss that the American nation certainly hadn't lost ability to give.

Russia could see that deep blue radiating off of America, so strong and dominating. It egged his own violet aura to emit and clash. Things could have turned violent, but with the way their bodies clung to one another, overwhelmed with more intimate emotions than that of hate and murder, so too did their auras roll against each other, almost melding into one hue . . . like years before tragedy tore them apart.

It was an absolute shame that their peoples loathed each other. But they were of a generation too forgotten about the once close ties their two countries had. How quickly mortals forget.

It was a shame that nations couldn't share in the same limited memories as the people they are comprised of. Perhaps then Russia and America would stop treating each other like old lovers. They weren't anymore, yet no power on earth could dissuade their minds and bodies from continually seeking to confirm this belief.

Guided by the longing of their deprived souls, America's aura spoke to Russia's own, pulling it as well as its host along toward a private part of the studio. The bedroom of which he was led, carrying America in his arms, was spacious and chic, but the details of the modern room laid in thousands of dollars of furnish was ignored when Russia's knees touched the frame of a bed.

It was then America leaned his weight back, keeping his arms wrapped around Russia's neck and legs around his waist to pull the Russian down on top of him as they both leaned over the bed and sank into the satin sheets and soft mattress. Lips were pulled away from Russia's mouth when America had settled into the sheets, looking up at Russia with darkening eyes.

America knew Russia wouldn't turn away from him. He had released his hold on the older country's neck and hips to prove his point. Instead, he relaxed himself, raising his arms as if to stretch, but merely to reveal the fine shape of his toned body, torso bare for Russia to ravish if he so desired to.

It was an offering, a way to bait the rival nation to give in to the younger's wants. Well, luckily for America, so too was it the wants of Russia.

Without regret, Russia leaned down and pressed his lips to the westerner's collarbone, firstly pressing gentle lips against the skin until the jutting thick bone tempted him enough to bare his teeth and mark the boy lain out underneath him. Strong hands slid up Russia's rips, gripping his coat while he swirled his tongue around the bite mark. Fingers curled and began tugging at the article of clothing, nearing the same rough manner Russia's hands had before, which caused the destruction of America's pricy shirt.

The feel of them reminded Russia of the other obstacle currently hindering his journey to connection. Violet eyes glanced down toward America's pants. He could see they were tailored, a perfect fit for the American's strong legs.

However it seemed they weren't well accommodated with the rise of arousal in the young nation's body. The crotch seams pulled taut with the growing erection America was currently facing.

The humor of it all had Russia grinning and his hand reached in between America's thighs to rub the heel of his palm along the strained member. The sound that stumbled out of America's throat sounded animalistic, but not as much as what escaped Russia's.

Visions of similar sights; of America lain out beneath Russia, panting, flustered, aroused, eyes so dark with want that those parted lips would soon be moving to form words to beg with; it all came back to Russia like floods breaking over a heavily guarded dam. These moments had been what he had used to live for. He swore he didn't need these times ever again. But, yet, his heart still pounded in his chest and body reacted to old familiar habits.

His behavior was unacceptable to the higher ups, Russia knew this. But they would never know. This was already ingrained into him long before they took their reign by force. No, this, right here, with him, this was now so natural to Russia.

The USSR didn't smack away the USA's hands when he brought them up to unwind his scarf, to tug off his coat and fumble with the buttons on his dress shirt. This offhandedly made Russia wish he had dressed himself in something less ideal for a higher class look. But when traveling abroad he had made it his common place to dress in a fine state. He had to look his best, especially in a place with so many beautiful people.

But even he hadn't cared for the treatment his clothing was put through. Fabric was torn and buttons launched into the air. It was all a necessary sacrifice so that he made touch America, bare chest to bare chest.

He hummed at the feel. Just to take in the rise and fall of America's ribs felt pleasant on his own torso. How differently they contrasted each other, Russia himself nothing but a pale hue while pressed so closely to him lay a warm and tanned form of which made no remark about their difference of shade.

Russia wanted to say America's name. He hadn't been allowed to in so long and he wondered if he still could pronounce it properly, but all hope to form the name on his tongue was banished with a demanding mouth pressing against his own. It was a smash of lips with mouths remained closed and eyes clenched shut. The move was meant to cling, to mold bodies while hips began to gyrate against each other.

Russia moaned. Now that he was pressed so close to this beautiful nation he could properly scent him. America was masked in fine cologne, the likes of which his most famous stars adorned themselves in. It was a pleasant scent that taunted Russia's nostrils to continue to inhale the addicting fragrance.

Before, America had used to smell of the ocean, with salt in his hair and the fury of hurricanes on his breath. In the plains he smelt of hay, of horse and buffalo, fur and leather, and dust. Now . . . now the rising power smelt of money, of jewels and gold and expense. Oh, how desirable this high class nation was.

So, Russia reveled in the feel of being above him, of having this prosperous nation lain out underneath him, giving him permission to have him, to taste of his wealth and bask in his warmth. But this was no privilege as one might think, no, not for Russia. This was something of a rekindling than an opportunity. To relive old memories together. And Russia would, they both would; because both nations were feeling particularly nostalgic in that moment.

So while it was such a pleasantry to feel America's manicured nails scrapping down his back, inhaling his fragranced sweat seeping out of his pores, and running fingers through perfectly trimmed and well cared for golden strands of hair, Russia's mind only returned to recollect the remembrance of these motions and of the boy he had given his heart to so long ago. Certainly those strong muscular arms wrapping around Russia's torso wasn't the same scrawny limbs clinging onto the object of their affection. Certainly this thick, well filled body now matured through time and power wasn't the same adolescent frame of a country so young and so to the brim with dreams that a number of stars shined in those bright blue eyes.

No, America was much older than the time he and Russia had no choice but to separate. He was no doubt the same nation, but his growth was still so hard to accept. Russia missed that little boy that would adorably cling to him. If only because they had still been lovers when America looked like so or that Russia enjoyed his idolization was something to think on, for later of course.

Right then Russia was aching to reenact their passion combined that he knew had never died within either of them, and by the way America arched into him, he too was aching for their reunion.

So Russia pressed his hands down, sliding them between their bodies and pulled at America's belt, unclasping the buckle. He seemed to be more kind to the pants; simply pushed them down and off America's legs. He made to be extremely harsh to those dark silky boxers, but America had pushed him back, he had completely turned the tables and flipped Russia around. Now he was the one laying down and looking up.

Russia had forgotten about America's notable strength. Well, not that he had forgotten but he certainly wasn't used to its presence during . . . times like _this_. Before, America had remained compliant in his inexperience and submitted himself to the then empire.

America had been a strong little boy, but Russia had always been stronger. As of right then he would like to say their gap in strength hadn't lessened or widened. Only, they might be just about in the same brink after America's successful move to sit himself upright.

But to be upset over the possibility of a struggle was taken from his mind. America seemed all too good at diversions. He leaned up on his knees then, his hands pulling at Russia's belt, nimble fingers unclasping the buckle too quickly for his hands to slip into Russia's pants, warm palms cupping a stiffening cock.

Those warm lips pressed against Russia's jaw, dipping lower to revealed neck after the older's scarf had slipped loose. The kisses to his neck and stimulation to his manhood made it hard to focus. Russia wanted to wrap his arms around the boy, but found himself immobilized under America's touch.

Moans and groans tumbled up Russia's throat and out of his mouth. He could feel the searing heat seeping into him through the sheer press of America's body. His warm breath ghosting over Russia's pale skin made the older shiver, his eyes darkening to thoughts and reasoning for such abilities to swoon.

Russia wondered who graced the American's bed. America was a hands-on person; he didn't learn through word of mouth, more so in the act. The thought of America laying with another nation, of him letting them touch him, hold him, kiss him . . . it unearthed an anger inside Russia, one he had no right to feel, and yet it strengthened his limbs and took over his body to the point he reached out, wrapped his arms around the nation before him, trapping him in his embrace while he leaned forward, pressing his weight down upon America as they crashed back into the sheets.

He pressed a hard kiss to that gasping mouth, making America's eyes shut during the action. Russia wanted to make sure he could still make this nation that had everything and wanted nothing melt for him, come undone for him, desire him again as if it were their first time. Russia wanted these reactions because of the memories and how they reminded him of the "good days."

And he loved, absolutely fell right out of his body, when America returned those pressing kisses, tilting his head, reaching up and tangling strong hands into the older nation's hair. Russia understood it now how the boy would never fall back into that same timid mind like before. So he accepted the power of America's feverous kisses, opened his mouth to that penetrating tongue that learned long ago to take initiative without proper permission—because that's how world powers were made.

Russia could feel America's hands upon his hips again, seeking to slip back between the press of their bodies. They did, and Russia couldn't discern if they wanted to slide into his undergarments or to simply wrap around his pant belt loops to tug the trousers down. The mixed direction finally settled when insistent hands bunched into the fabric of Russia's pants, pulling them down. They only slipped under the round of his behind before America's hands loosened their hold. All because Russia began to roll his hips into America. He had the younger gasping, pulling his lips away and arching his body into the older while Russia gyrated his pelvis.

Their breaths mingled hotly. Russia inhaled every moan that vibrated out of America's mouth, suckling on the energy expelled with each released pleasure. His aura covered America's and for a moment, just as the boy's eyes fluttered closed, that bright and dominating sapphire national signature eased, accepted Russia's lay over him and settled their struggles.

Eyes fluttered open in that still quiet moment, and when America turned his pleasure-thrown face back toward him Russia watched his features morph into something soft, something he's seen before, but never believed he'd see again. Soft irises sparkled dimly with an intimate light, lips turned, evolving America's features into the softness of the emotion he was showing to Russia right then.

Just that look alone took Russia's mind to recall every received picture, each portrait bearing the same expression solely reserved for him and the relationship they shared that they swore would last forever—or, as long as they could make it so. That look was letters of favored declaration opened in a haste upon delivery, of furiously seeking to clear schedules just to chance a trip, even a small one, to spend desired time with that significant other. It was the reminder of feeling so much heartbreak when the realization that what they had was really over, done, finalized; accepted.

Those dark blue eyes closed again, jaw tilting up when lips pressed against Russia's again while he was frozen by the memories and regrets. And Russia still melted into that mouth, moved his lips back. The kiss was so soft, but so familiar it was deep, passionate, and sent that rising feeling in the both of them.

Just for that night. They wouldn't accept what had taken place.

They rolled in the sheets, hands mindlessly shedding their bodies of hindering clothing, discarding the articles wherever they may land while the two wrapped limbs together, tangled their forms and clung to one another through the persistence of their mouths.

Russia could feel the way America's hands ran down his sides, fingers tracing the hardened form of his torso and abdomen. He knew this wasn't the body America had been used it, Russia was more refined after much hard work, but . . . as he too ran his hands down America's fuller frame, he understood it was the same with the younger. The last time his hands ran so freely down the western country was when the tell-tale signs of muscles began to define themselves on a boy so little, with so much potential. The silky sheets lain out had been nothing but simple fleece blankets, but they were enough to cling to turning times of desperation and chill while two bodies huddled underneath soiled sheets after satisfying one another. And the scent on America's skin hadn't been something of a wad of cash, but of the hay he had fed to his horses, and salt from the sea air, after all, the young one had a ship in the harbor, waiting to carry him off back to his familiar lands.

Russia hadn't been there to see this rising country trade his reigns in for the leather-bound wheels to steer sleek and well-crafted vehicles, or when his hands pulled away from the harder labors to bathe in creams and scents to soften and smoothen his skin so that those hands would look perfect to reach into his overburdened wallet and pull out bills, gold, silver, gems, whatever riches fell out that day to pay for the things he wanted and always got. When Russia knew him, the boy had never been one to bask in the latest trend in fashion as the other countries around them, but now he wore what he wanted and the world followed.

It would have been nice to see this growth, to watch the boy's rise to take his stand at the world's podium. Russia knew he would have been proud of him. He knew he would have encouraged.

But, now, he was not allowed to feel this. He was not allowed to even smile at the way America looked, moved, talked. They were rivals after all—standing on a bitter line of enemies. It was understandable to remember once cherished memories because they were all in the past. So, what of now? What was Russia to do with the moment they were both clinging to now?

Soon enough it would be a memory and that thought alone eased the strain in Russia's senses. But it certainly did not make him hurry himself any more than the notion of time.

He caressed, he kissed, he rubbed, and he encouraged America's own ministrations with moans and groans and sighs. Eyes fluttering closed when a warm hand wrapped around his stiff cock, moving in such a way that made Russia melt. America then pulled, pressed Russia's hard cock against his own arousal, letting both organs throb and pulse against one another while hips slowly rolled to create a tantalizingly drawn out pace enough to please their bleeding hearts.

Moans in synced pitch collided with one another. America held Russia's gaze while their lips parted and their bodies tensed over the way their nerves heated their entire bodies.

Not a word was spoken. It wasn't needed to. Their outreaching auras translated the caught words in their throats and pressed them onward. This communication was how Russia found the glass bottle of oil nestled within the nightstand's third side drawer, this form of silent speech was also how Russia coaxed America to relax when he penetrated him with his fingers.

Hands slid up Russia's arms until they rested on his shoulders, fingers often times flicking up to tease the ends of his hair. It turned those violet eyes of the older's to focus more on America's expressions than on the task at hand. That smile that America bore almost startled Russia, but of course, the way the younger country's essence seeped out of him and caressed his own with words, feelings, and things neither were allowed to say out loud had Russia's body shivering, encasing in an ache to press closer, much, much closer, and to remain that way until the world fell apart.

Of course Russia knew America felt the same. He could _feel_ it through the caress of that sapphire hued aura rubbing against his own. That smile held on America's lips, even while the boy's eyes fluttered closed, his neck arching to tilt his head back into the ruffled sheets below as his lips parted to usher out moans from deep inside him. He clenched against Russia's pressing fingers, legs spreading in familiar exercise.

In these motions Russia's other hand moved, slid up America's bobbing arousal before rubbing his thumb against the slit. Russia remembered how much he had loved to make this nation squirm, churn, toss, react to his touches so that he would never forget him. The played out reactions were the same as Russia recalled and he smiled before he even realized it himself. He was much too fond of their shared time between the sheets, it seemed he'd never grow out of that.

America had begun to toss and turn so much, his limbs trembling, that when he suddenly leaned up slightly, his hands reaching down, Russia had expected the younger nation to attempt to struggle with him again. Instead, Russia's eyes only widened when America grasped his wrist and pulled on his arm, sinking stretching fingers as far as they could go. Now he rolled his hips, clenching those fingers before loosening himself. Dark eyes flicked up at Russia, foreheads pressing against the other and heavy breaths falling out of tanned lips and falling hotly onto Russia's mouth.

Russia wanted to lean in and kiss him then. It seemed to be that want that America pulled him with. Slowly, he leaned back, beckoning him to follow. Russia did.

America's back bounced against the mattress while Russia pressed his weight down upon him. Their lips melded together, tongues pressing out in search of the other while their auras mingled, rolling together as their spirits soared, breaking out of their bodies to touch just for a moment.

Sighs were inhaled and eyelids fluttered closed. Russia's body moved on its own. One of his arms slithered around America to wrap him up against him and his other hand had unknowingly left the warm tightness of the American's body to press down flat against the sheets so to lean a part of his weight off of the younger and smaller nation.

There wasn't need for anything else save the guidance of their own souls. Eyes opened and connected gazes. Russia rolled his hips, inching himself inside the open country underneath him. He watched everything, from the way America's eyes fluttered, to the way his lips trembled, teeth gritting together just behind. It had been a long time since they had been together like this. So very long.

But Russia was grateful for the uneasy entry. He groaned at the tightness, hunching forward while holding America close, his nose burying into the boy's neck while he continued to press and to sink inside. The constriction and resilient muscles verified Russia's concerns; America hadn't been with another—at least not in a long time.

He liked to believe that the boy had remained true to him, that he had completely abstained despite popular rumor spread around in the Old World. He could think more on this positively or negatively, but the merging of their bodies called Russia's absolute attention and so he shut down his ill-guided thoughts for a moment just to bask in the feeling of his once-lover.

Chests heaved and Russia clung as much as America clung to him. Now that everything was quiet, and both still, only the sound and feel of their beating hearts seemed to guide the two. So, Russia leaned up, he locked his elbows and pulled his torso away from America. His eyes looked down at him, the boy was already looking back, those warm hands of his roaming down Russia's rolling abdominal muscles, just as mesmerized.

Russia could feel the way America's knees moved against his hips when he pulled out of the nation and then pressed himself back in to set a pace. America's hands slid up, gripping Russia's shoulders when their rhythm was set. And Russia could even feel the subtle tightening of his grip when the younger nation liked a particular angle.

It was all from memory of course; the way America liked it the best when Russia angled himself, when he would lean in closer, when his own hands would rub and caress those quivering thighs. They had their eyes on each other the entire time, observing the other as they moved, as their expressions morphed from concentration to riddled with pleasure when something snapped inside them.

"Ivan."

Russia had been looking at America, but not really focusing on him, or how he looked back at him so intensely. His body was shaking, too engrossed in the feel of the American's walls tightening around him each time he pulled back, but when his pupils dilated, focused in on just how America looked right now, he noticed the way he moved his hands, now reaching up to press those warm palms against the sides of Russia's face. The soft touch had startled Russia and he almost flinched away had not those deep sapphire hued irises held him still and calmed him.

"Ivan." America said his name again. So naturally. So perfectly. Those caressing hands cradling his face only guided Russia back down, leaning closer so they could press their mouths together and breathe in the other.

Even after so long, they moved so fluently together. Not a thing had changed. The account of their heightened strengths didn't even hinder their ability to dance so on beat, both bodies acting on memory.

They seemed perfect for one another. But there was no such thing as perfection. The word really was one of imaginative make. Both understood this. Time and reality having already forced them to accept this.

Even still, in rekindling old memories so too did they the cherished feelings attached to them. They drowned in these emotions, glad to have felt them again for this moment in time. And when this became a memory of the past they'd no doubt keep this in their hearts as something of value, no matter what the majority said.

America moaned into Russia's mouth the moment the older grasped his thigh and raised it higher, pressing it against his side while he rolled his hips deeper, pressing himself so close. The angle had twisted Russia's body, he was now leaning more on his side and with a sudden dip he was rolled over onto his back. America seated himself upright easily, quickly grasping Russia's hands, entwining fingers while he rolled himself onto his bedmate, lifting himself up with strong thighs.

His head leaned back, sighs of pleasure leaving his lips. And Russia watched him, remembering how well America had been used to this position. Nothing had faltered due to the lapse of time. Their minds did so remember it, as did their bodies, and their hearts . . .

Russia let out a stuttering gasp when America arched himself, his muscles squeezing the older's throbbing shaft so pleasantly. Sharp breaths were inhaled through flaring nostrils while teeth chattered together. Russia's body began to shiver, his eyes forever glued onto America's moving form above him.

One of his hands reluctantly let go of America's just to grasp the boy's hips, slowly sliding behind to take a handful of firm buttocks. He moaned at feeling America clutch him from the action, the boy's hand falling down to touch his wrist before sliding up Russia's forearm and clinging to him like that.

Russia took note every time America's eyes fluttered, every time that boy bit his lip, each time his jaw loosened and tender sighs exhaled. Russia was certain America kept track of his reactions as well, his eyes on him as much as he.

Russia liked it when America kept his glasses off. It made him look younger. It made him look like that young aspiring nation Russia had met so long ago in his royal courts.

So little; America had been so out of place in the Old World. But look at him now. At the prime of his life, with the world lain out for him on a silver platter.

And he was with Russia of all nations, clinging to him, moaning his name, pulling him into his body. How privileged Russia should feel being with such a highly appraised country. He felt nothing like he should of course. It was all because Russia had never stopped viewing America like he used to—like he should have.

America had been his lover many, many years ago. Despite a horrible ending for both of them, Russia couldn't seem to displace that image of the country to something more professional. But he knew he wasn't the only one dealing with this problem.

A smile twitched at his lips the more he took in America's motions. He could feel the nation tremble, shiver in delight, closing his eyes just to feel their bodies' connection. And the more reaction was what Russia wanted, he bucked up into the nation when he descended upon him, making America jump and gasp out a moan.

He looked at him then. America's eyes narrowed, lips parted while he continued this pace he had controlled. Russia didn't move again, but his smile on his face didn't hide the fact that he had moved when he shouldn't have. He enjoyed watching America set his other clasped hand onto his hip, leaving America's hands free to do what they will, and Russia watched and waited.

Hums rumbled in his chest upon feeling America lean forward. The younger about crawled over Russia's form, rubbing their chests together. Evoking so many senses inside Russia's body that he about lost himself.

Even back then, even when America had been but a simple novice to the bedroom, even when those hands shook with uncertainty on where to touch and eyes refused to remain open out of nervousness, fright, anxiousness, Russia had never been dissatisfied by him. Even if they had spent months, years, apart from one another; when they embraced, when they tangled themselves between the sheets, it quelled Russia's soul, that attached to his worries, his anger, fear, the stress of managing an empire. Only when America was in his arms could he settle his restless spirit and exhale a sigh of clarity.

It most definitely was taken in the memory of the younger. Russia found himself trembling in unbridled pleasure underneath him, with the way he moved, rolling his hips and pulling up and pressing back down so expertly, giving Russia the perfect view of watching how he penetrated him, and even how those hands slid up his torso, tracing defined muscle while kneading any knotted strain those skilled fingers came across.

In the time Russia's eyes had fluttered closed and his body settled into the sheets while hands clung to America's moving hips while his own continued rolling into him through the encouragement of how those inner walls tightened so profusely, the younger country had leaned himself down, laying his body across Russia's while planting his elbows near the older's shoulders. Even when Russia felt the warm breath of the other fall against his lips, his only response happened to be that of a released groan and the loosening of his jaw, mouth opening to invite the inevitable.

The kiss planted by America fumed with passion and vibrancy, and Russia drank it all. His hands resting on America's hips slid up the boy's back, slowing down only a little to feel the way those muscles moved in the rhythm of their sensual motion. But fingers longed to trace along the dips and contours of America's jutting shoulder blades, so Russia slid his hands up and held them there.

Smacking lips and the wet thuds of their colliding hips filled the room while muffled moans and groans were exchanged through sealed and bonded mouths. The heat inside their heightened bodies urged Russia to move more and so he began bucking up into the American above him more than he could keep control of. Their rhythm turned up a pace, America's body jolting with every met thrust. Russia watched as his eyes closed, the rumbling of his moans were cascading more into the older's mouth while the westerner trembled in ecstasy.

There was a moment to take lead just then, and Russia grasped for it. He pressed upward, seating himself upright while his hands fell back down to the small of America's back, hands motioning that the boy continue that powerful roll of hips.

America's eyes had opened then and for a time the two just stared at the other, deep hued violet meeting darker blue. Even this could have been a moment of content for Russia, just being able to stare at this unchanging beauty without the harsh and controlling glares of his bosses or the way the world's condemning eyes bid they both look away. Perhaps it was defiance against the planet, or perhaps it was simply the fulfillment of secret longings.

Yet it had been America who broke their hold by raising his hands, cupping Russia's face and leaning in closer. Once more, the familiar feeling of a summer's breath ghosted over Russia's kiss swollen lips. But they did not break eye contact, at least not until their lips pressed against the other's, familiarizing the feel of the other's folds and taste of their wet caverns as tongues pressed out to tangle once more.

Russia's fingers tangled into America's hair, almost regretting how his grasping digits ruined the gel holding America's locks together in the trending do, but the apologies would not come out of his mouth because of the remembrance of how his fingers loved more the feel of soft strands of golden hair slipping through holds. And his grip continued to tighten while they angles their heads, nipping, biting, sucking, drinking from the other's energy as they pressed so closely.

"Oh!" America had pulled his mouth away abruptly to issue this cry into the air around them. Russia could feel him pushing his hips down harder onto Russia's cock, a desperation about his movement now.

He liked those sounds the younger made, more so he liked the feel of their echo against his lips. And so leaned down, pressing his mouth against America's throat and suckling, smiling at the way his Adam's apple moved when those noises caught in his voice box. Teeth pulled against skin and America's body continued to bend, reacting to the way Russia commanded him from the inside out. The weight pulled Russia forward and now they were tumbling down into the sheets again.

America let out another moan, his eyes clenching shut with the weight pressed down onto him, and inside him. Russia never stopped rolling his hips, already feeling the way he swelled and the urgency to complete what they had started. This time he pressed down upon America, this time he initiated a searing kiss, this time his hands roamed over a body so new yet so familiar.

The way America melted underneath him placed a small sense of pride inside the Russian nation. He wondered if he was that pleasing in bed, or, if America only unraveled so fully because of their past intimate history. The notion of an old lover certainly hadn't many faults in the eyes of one seeking to remember and to cling for a short moment in time.

Mouths pulled away yet Russia's lips remained hovering over America's opened mouth. He looked absolutely well bedded, satisfied on the highest levels. And Russia felt glad, privileged even to please someone so wanted among so many.

He inhaled those heavy breaths, moaning at the feel of America's nails falling back down his back while legs spread wide to take him in. Russia wanted him to remember him, even as he would surely leave after this sin of theirs was completed. He wanted America to ache with the stretch only his cock could fill him with, he even wanted to empty himself into the young nation as if in claim of his lands, or just to remember what it felt like. But, at the last moment, Russia recollected who he was, and who this enchanting boy was below him.

He was close, only a few thrusts away. In his last bout he pressed in as deeply as he could go, bruising in his entry, but America never complained. Russia had made up his mind that in the end, as the surging rise teetered, he'd quickly pull himself away. This would be the control returned to him as well as common sense over both their positions.

This was it. Russia shuddered when he pressed inside America, already so swollen while America's walls worked their quickest to stretch as much as they could to accommodate Russia's current growth. So he memorized the feel of America's signature heat and the absolute closeness he felt being bodily connected. He prepared himself to come to accept this moment as another memory.

With hips recoiling, Russia grunted, letting out a huff of breath while noticing the feel of strong legs wrapped around him. He turned his eyes, noticed that America had locked his ankles behind his waist. So he turned back to America, looking at him questionably.

America said nothing. Why would he? His eyes told Russia everything, as did the feel of the boy's aura, coaxing his own to do what he wanted, convincing that it was what they both wanted.

Those warm hands of his rose, sliding up Russia's arms before palms pressed against flushed cheeks. Russia could feel the tug and for once he resisted. He could see the shift of light in America's eyes, but this didn't stop the younger from trying to accomplish what he wanted.

Russia watched America lean up. He pressed close to him, kissing his lips softly as if in a kind of assurance before his arms wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders and scarred neck. Russia felt America bury his face into his neck and automatically his body felt the need to nuzzle in return. But his hands only slid up the boy's back, arms wrapping around just as securely while his hips found the last push they needed to bury Russia's cock into the depths of America's body by the encouragement of America's constricting thighs.

Russia's moans rumbled throughout his chest as he expelled his seed into the one he shared this bed with. He could hear America's gasp, even feel the way he tightened around the shaft of Russia's cock as it ejaculated his essence, filling the younger with his strength, letting him taste his power, his lands, his culture, and his history.

With a roll of America's hips, Russia felt the boy cum against their chests, rivets upon rivets seeping out, staining them both with the evidence of this deed.

Bodies trembled and chests heaved to release panted breaths. When Russia's orgasm finally faded from his over sensitive body, he recalled how tightly he was still clinging to America, and how desperately the boy was grasping him in return.

"Ivan." Russia smiled. He liked the way America said his name. He wondered if he liked the way he said his.

"Alfred."

Russia noticed the way America's eyes fell on his pale lips before those blue eyes looked up into Russia's own gaze, as if the boy was making sure the older had really said his name. After calculating eyes came to this realization, a smile quirked against America's lips. It wasn't a smile of a dictator, or liken to his stars, it was one of his youth, or simply younger years—the only smile he ever reserved for Russia.

Russia felt his heart pound like it used to before when he beheld those knee-weakening smiles. He would be able to do nothing else than whatever America desired. He simply never had managed to build any sort of defense against this deviant weapon of the New World nation's.

So, when America took up his hands and held them in his own, Russia refused to let go until he did. When America leaned forward and pressed their lips together, Russia returned the kiss for as long as America wanted. When the boy's hips rolled and walls tightened around Russia, he knew he had to follow the pull of America's desire . . . because, despite his denial, it was his own as well.

The bed frame was of good make to withstand their heated passion and its continuance into the night. Russia recalled numerous accounts throughout their past of beds that disappointed, ensuing humor between the two while they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs and blankets. But nothing was interrupted. For a brief moment Russia had wished they were, then they would have stopped when they should have. But the night was perfect, just too goddamn perfect. Even in the early hours of the morning they sought to appease themselves, swearing to never stop until they found what they wanted.

But it all had to stop. Both knew that neither would ever find the satisfaction they once knew. And when they finally accepted that truth they pulled away from each other, trying to capture the breath that had escaped them, and untangle their spiritual auras from one another.

Russia had been the first to try to compose himself. First, it was by dressing himself. This task seemed almost too slow. When he looped his scarf back around his neck after buttoning up his overcoat he stilled his motions.

His eyes turned back toward the bed, the dark ebony sheets were ruffled, a single occupant only remaining, looking all too lonely while he pulled the blankets up over his waist, eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. Russia tried to mind himself and to not stare, but he was certain many a person has tried this when in the presence of the dazzling U.S.A and unabashedly failed in their attempted manner. He knew he wasn't the only one to admire his beauty even when his facial expressions looked so sad.

It was funny how the previous need Russia had once sought to accomplish arose during that moment when he silently took in America's still form and the sight of the rise and fall of his chest. It was even more interesting that his camera had been hung onto the lampstand.

"Alfred."

Blue eyes blinked before they moved toward Russia. When America's head turned toward him, Russia had decided to blind the young country in that moment as his camera's bulb flashed and gave its last breath.

It was very interesting how America didn't manage to blink in that moment, and even after the light died, those blue eyes held Russia's gently smiling face. Well, the boy was used to the photographers of Hollywood after all.

"There, I finally have my photograph," Russia said, his tone soft, far-off even while he unscrewed the bulb mindlessly and checked the case for the film he would develop later once he returned home.

America let out a sigh, rolling onto his side, propping his head up on his arm. Russia then felt the need to snap another picture. The boy always looked so photogenic.

"You sure you got my good side?" America questioned. Russia caught the playfulness in the country's tone and he was glad for it. It would lighten their current predicament; it would make it easier to leave.

With a chuckle, Russia nodded, holding up the device that he wouldn't give up now. "Whether good or not, I will not discard, Amerika."

Another sigh escaped through America's nostrils. He held onto a gentle smile and nodded his head, those eyes of his hazing over with thought. He remained like that for a while before he glanced up toward Russia.

"One more?"

Oh, those batting eyes were irresistible. Russia wondered if America was aware of the power he had over others, over himself. He had to.

"I am content with this one," Russia replied. And he was.

"Please? Just one more."

Russia could still feel the influence of the western nation's over him. His aura reaching out to caress him and move him forward.

In the end Russia decided to think for himself. Even if he gave into the whim of the younger country it was because he decided to.

Raising his camera, Russia forced out a wider smile. "What kind of picture do you want me to take now?"

"How about a headshot?" America leaned up a little more, pushing unkempt locks out of his eyes.

"Da, very well." Russia positioned the camera. He would have just taken another picture hadn't he noticed America's displeased feature facing him through the lens. "I will take picture with or without that face." And that was a promise.

"You're camera won't get a clear picture so far away." America beckoned him to come closer.

Russia sighed, fought back his need to roll his eyes, and came closer while trying to focus the camera just right.

When he got close enough Russia should have expected America to move. But he didn't. So it was his fault that his face was forever immortalized inside a strip of photographic film with a look of startle when America reached forward with both hands, one grabbing the camera, the other his scarf. The picture was snapped quickly but even after the light faded and the picture saved, they remained close, lips pressing to lips until America so saw it fit to pull away.

"There," America said with a grin. He sat up and then pressed the camera back into Russia's hands. "It's always been my best side."

Russia's lips parted and then closed and then parted again. He always hated it that America was gifted with speech during uncertain situations, and that he was always quiet simply because he didn't know what to say.

"It's a shame you're leaving so soon." Russia watched the way America fiddled with the sheets, his eyes often glancing toward the unoccupied side of the bed. There was indeed room for another. "I'd autograph it for you." Sparkling eyes looked back toward Russia, hoping to convince.

But this time, Russia knew what to say. He only smiled politely and moved away. "Maybe if you ever stop by Moscow, da?"

"Schedule's busy." America was good at offering just a simple smile in the form of an unspoken apology.

Russia nodded in understanding. He left with what he wanted and ended up with more than he had asked for, but he wouldn't take anything back. He didn't think he ever could.

He understood that it wasn't like how it was in the past. Neither of them could make time for relationships of intimacy, or the means to repair a broken one. America was a busy and rising nation, as was Russia.

But Russia knew that if he ever wanted a photograph of the nation, America would make time for him just to show him his prime angle, his best side.

They couldn't bring the past back, but they could always store it in film and maybe, sometimes . . . if the both of them were free . . . attempt to reenact the good ol' days. Just for memories sake.


End file.
